by John Buchan
At the mention of it the old pagan cried aloud in glee: “I aince saw her, and she was as bonny as Queen Mary. Francie, lad, it’s a guid errand ye’re on, and I’ll risk anither hundred if ye need it.” And so the lady’s health was drunk and Francis sat on at the wine till late, hearing old fragments of family tales. So when at last he sought the inn, it was with some affection for his fellows and a more kindly outlook on life.
It would be hard to follow that hurried journey after the style of an itinerary, for it was monotonous and without interest save the casual variation of weather. Among the Westmoreland hills the drought broke in a chain of storms which set every hill-water roaring and made the fords hard for a carriage to pass. It was weary work both for Francis without on his horse, opposed to the buffeting of rain, and for Margaret and her maid within, who had no outlook but the dull streaks of water against the panes and a perpetual line of rough hill-land. Sometimes it cleared towards evening, and then the lady would dismount and walk down the yellowing mountain track where the pools glowed in links of pure fire. In these hours she became cheerful, but in the long black showers she was sad and absent-minded, dwelling always on the past and its melancholy change. As for Francis, he was so old a wayfarer that he endured all weathers with equanimity. Only, when soaked to the skin and with no sight but blank hills, he would begin to think on the futility of his errand and torment his brain with projects of vain endeavour.
But with the Lowlands came July days when the sun was hot in the sky and the roads white underfoot. It was now that Margaret recovered her spirits and found humour in every halting-place and something pleasant to her curiosity in the vivid life of the road. Her cheeks got a touch of colour, till she no longer formed such a sharp contrast to the gipsy Francis. Yet the life had still all the hardships of a journey, for the roads were broken in many places with recent passage of armies, the inns were filled with an air of suspicion, and piteous sights were always at hand to remind of war. This was in the North, but as they drew to the Midlands they found a lush and settled country which seemed terribly unfriendly to fugitives from a mourning land. For the first time they felt their presence among a people of alien sentiments and blood, a peaceable folk who dwelt among orderly hedgerows and neat, garden-like fields. And with the thought the bright and bitter past grew more irrevocable, and both alike were plagued with hapless memories.
For Francis each day meant much careful forethought and not seldom high-handed intrusion. As it chanced, many of the inns were filled with the stream of travellers between North and South, and to get comfort he had to assume a high air of dignity and show a bluff self-confidence he did not feel. Fortunately his purse was heavy, and in this easy land he found money a passport to more things than in the flinty North. But his mind was in a perpetual worry, for to haggle about the little things of life had never been his task before, and he found it irksome. His consolation lay in Margaret’s entire immunity from such trivial cares; if her life must be sorrowful and vain, it would at least be free from the grossness of worry.
The road was uneventful though it was the morning after a war, and one incident alone is worthy of record. In a little town on the Warwick borders they halted for a night, and after dusk Francis went out as his custom was to sober his thoughts with the night air. A year ago he had been a boy; now he felt himself an aging broken man, driven in curb along a stony path of virtue, a man passionate yet austere, with a cold, scrupulous heart and a head the prey of every vagrom fancy. A man with great capacities, truly, but scarcely a man to live pleasantly, at ease with himself and the world.
Round the gate of the inn-yard there was the usual idle throng. As he jostled his way through, one turned sharply round, recognition shining in his eyes. He put his hand on Francis’ shoulder and followed him to the street. “Mr. Birkenshaw, my dear man,” he cried, “do I trust my ain een? What brings ye here o’ a’ places on earth? I have had hell’s luck since I left you at Leidburn, but you look stout and flourishing.”
When Francis recognised in the tattered lad the great Starkie, his former friend, his first feeling was of rage, fierce and unthinking. What right had this tatterdemalion, this ghost from the past, to come here and remind him of his folly, when he loathed it with his whole heart and soul? It was a pitiable figure, unshaven, haggard, with blear eyes and a shambling walk, — a thing all but over the verge of beggary. And this had once claimed him as companion and now called him friend!
“Ye’re the lad for me, Mr. Birkenshaw. Ye’ve the master mind. I see ye’ve your braw leddy here that flyted on ye at Leidburn. Ye wad sune mak’ it up wi’ her, for ye were a lad wi’ weemen?” And he wandered into obscenity.
Francis took him by the collar and held him firm. “See here, Mr. Stark, if ye mention the lady’s name again I will fling ye over the brig as I once flung ye into a ditch. You and me quitted partnership lang syne. If it’s money ye want I will help ye to the best of my power, but let there be no talk of friendship.”
The boy whimpered. “What’s ta’en ye at an auld freend?” he cried.
“We have taken different roads, you and me,” said Francis.
“Ye may set yoursel’ abune me if ye please. I am puir and ye are rich, but I never took anither man’s wife to traivel the high-roads wi’ me.”
Francis’ fingers itched for his ears. “I am not a patient man, as ye know, Mr. Stark.”
“Patient or no, what do I care? But there’s ae thing I can see wi’ my een, and that is that there’s some o’ His Majesty’s sodgers wad be glad to ken that ye were here and this leddy wi’ ye.” He shrieked out his words while cunning twinkled in his little eyes.
“If ye say a word more, sir, or if ye dare but try what ye threaten, by God I’ll send ye to your Master or ever ye can cheep. Do ye think I’m to be trifled wi’ that ye try my hand here?” And he spoke so fiercely and with such angry eyes that the wretched Starkie seemed to shrivel up into apology.
“God, Francie!” he cried, “gie me siller and let me off, for I’m starving.”
Francis thrust some coins into his dirty palm and watched him turn with scarcely a word of thanks and shuffle back to the inn. He was angry with himself, angry and ashamed. He almost pitied the wretch, and yet he loathed him and feared him and all the black past which he stood for. All his little self-composure was sent broadcast on the winds. He knew himself for the ragged, inconstant fool that he was, with but a thought dividing his veneer of virtue from the stark blackguardism of the vagrant. It was a stormy-souled man who tossed that night upon his bed, and rose in the morning with something greyer and bleaker in his determination.
As they passed out into the street a hollow-faced boy, still half-tipsy from the night’s debauch, cried good morning and a pleasant journey.
“Who is that man?” asked Margaret, carelessly.
“He was one of my former friends,” said Francis, and rode forward.
* * * * *
As they came near the city where the roads from the North converged into one great highway, their journey was hindered with the constant passing of military. Once more they were in the air of war, for a prisoner would pass, or a forlorn and anxious band of his kinsfolk, or a great northern lord or lady — all on their way to the great centre of fate. Francis felt no fear of recognition, for his part, though played in the thick of affairs, had been secret from the multitude. Once only, when a lady whom he knew for Miss Cranstoun of Gair, looked curiously at the tall, brown, sombre cavalier, did he turn away his face in doubt. But for the most part he held his head carelessly amid the throng of wayfarers.
The last night’s halting-place was in a little town on the edge of Hertfordshire, a place among green meadows and rushy waters. At its one inn they found no one but a groom rubbing down a horse in the courtyard, and from the look of beast and man it seemed as if some person of importance were using the hostel. In the one dining-room when both sat down to supper a man was looking out of the window and drumming on the pane. He turned round at thei
r entrance, and in a second Francis had in his mind the Highland inn and the carousing by the fire; for in the stranger he saw the rosy face and heavy figure of Forbes of Culloden, the Lord President.
He felt he was recognised, he felt too that this man was well aware who was the lady who sat down with him. As it chanced Margaret, who had seen the great lawyer scores of times, saw in him only a chance stranger; the dusk was gathering, she was tired with the day’s toil, and she had no memory for faces. Forbes bowed to her curtly and without a word withdrew.
Francis ate his meal in a fever of anxiety. This man held both in his hands, and on the one former occasion of meeting he had insulted him, using as a weapon the name of this very lady. He knew of the popular report which made the Lord President’s name a synonym for kindliness; but would he forgive so arch an offender, would he believe in the honesty of one who had so recently played a very different part? As soon as he could he left the room on some pretext to go in search of him.
He found him on the threshold, smoking with great deliberation and watching the glow of sunset over the fields. “So we meet again, Mr. Birkenshaw?” he observed drily.
“It is on that point I have come to speak, my lord,” said Francis. “You favour the other side in politics, but folk say that you are not a man that loves extremes. You see our wretched position, and I would ask your forbearance.”
“Ye are a Jacobite renegade,” said the other, “and ye ask me to let ye be. That I can understand. But what for does this lady go with you? Are ye up to some new devilry, Mr. Birkenshaw? For if ye are, lad, and would drag the bonniest woman in the land into the same bog, then by God I will make you pay for it with every bone in your body.” And his honest old eyes twinkled with wrath.
Then Francis with a shamefast air had to set to and tell him the history of the whole business, leaving out only such parts as concerned Lovat and the Prince. The old man stopped him once and again, bidding him say no more about this or that matter, as it might be best for him to hear least. To the whole tale of Murray of Broughton he listened eagerly, murmuring under his breath. Then he took Francis’ hand, and stared hard into his eyes till he was fain to shut them against that steely glitter.
“I believe ye to be a true man, Mr. Birkenshaw, and I ask your pardon. But this is a most lamentable tale ye have to tell me. Lord, man, I am driven crazy wi’ the cruelties that are being perpetrated in the North on the puir people. I have run to and fro atween Stair and Tweeddale and got satisfaction nowhere. Aye, I have even licked the boots o’ Cumberland, that haggis of a man, and suffered his clownish insults. I have been fleein’ here and there night and day on the business of that fule Cromarty, and now I come up here to try once more and wring water out of a stane. Heard ye o’ the death o’ the two lords, Balmerino and Kilmarnock? God, there was a tale for history! And now there may be a third, if a’ ye say is true, seeing that my Lord Lovat is taken.”
“Taken!” cried Francis; “when, how?”
“I kenna,” said the other, shortly. “But a day syne a coach passed me and a great guard o’ dragoons. I asked at the captain whae was his prisoner and he bade me look inside; and there, grinning like a wull-cat, was the auld wizened face o’ the Fraser.”
CHAPTER XVIII. Of an Interview in an Unlikely Place.
Lady Manorwater greeted her cousin with a dignified kindliness. She was a pale woman of middle age, with the faded blue eyes and yellow hair of one type of Scotswoman. Fervently devout, as was the habit of her house, she carried her devotion beyond the other Catholic ladies of her time, and seemed ever posturing as a colourless saint. She thought of politics and her kinsfolk only as things far away; for her the living reality of life was found in the little chapel where at frequent hours she would retire to a dim world of candles and paternosters. Her two sons were boys in their early teens; and these with the servants made up the whole household in Great Marlow Street. A perpetual air of peril hung over the house, for men came there on short visits by day and night whose names had been proclaimed at law, and under the cloak of her pious and unworldly name treason had flourished and many a secret conclave had met undisturbed. She welcomed her cousin with kindness, for she had ever been fond of the beautiful girl; more, it pleased her that she should flee to her of all her kin at this hour of danger. It seemed like a recognition of that sanctity she believed to be hers.
Towards Francis she wore the stiffness which she used to all mankind. He was beyond the circle of her thoughts, unrelated by blood and alien in creed. The place was in no disorder; the life was as full of punctiliousness as in a great house in times of peace. At first it irritated Francis, for he who had come on solemn business had no inclination for a farce of comfort. But soon he was glad, for it distracted Margaret’s thoughts and restored her to some portion of the elegancies of life. For her there was no going in and out and sharing in the gaieties of town. London was bitterly hostile to her cause; the streets were full of a mob shouting coarse party cries; and every day almost there was some fresh death for the populace to gape at. So the women abode indoors, while Francis wandered fiercely about the city.
As soon as he might, he sought out the lodging of the Lord President in the Haymarket. Forbes sat before a pile of papers, in a fine reek of tobacco smoke, while two harassed clerks scribbled in a corner. At the sight of the visitor he opened the door to a smaller sitting-room and bade him follow.
“Well, Mr. Birkenshaw, how have ye been employing your time hereaways?” he asked.
“As best I could,” said Francis. “This much I know, that Murray lies in the Tower with his honour still untarnished. Traitor or no, his treachery has not yet been put to proof.”
“True enough,” said Forbes. “His examination begins next week. Have ye any work on hand ye may desire my help in?”
“It is my wish to get speech of the Secretary.”
Forbes hummed a little. “It is unconstitutional,” he said, “but it might be managed, though I see not what it will serve. Ye will be bearing him messages from his wife and kin?”
“I will be striving to bring him to a better mind,” said Francis. “You know what I mean, my lord.”
“Pardon me, sir, I ken nothing but what I choose to ken. Besides, when so much is thrust down my throat there is no need for idle guesses;” and he looked up with a twinkle of intelligence which served the other’s purpose.
There was silence for a little, while street cries floated up and a catch of a song which the Lord President whistled. “I know the desperation of my plans,” said Francis; “but then it is no time for little makeshifts.”
“If ye kenned the circumstances o’ the time better, sir, ye might think them a little more desperate. Here are you, a lad without penetration, with no knowledge of the world, and ye are for visiting a noted prisoner of state and ‘bringing him to a better mind;’” and the old man laughed sarcastically.
“I fight for my own hand,” said Francis, gloomily; “I can at least harm no man but myself.”
Forbes looked at him shrewdly for a second, and then drew his chair closer with a serious face.
“Would ye wonder greatly if I were to give ye some hint of the way the wind blows, Mr. Francis? Would it amaze ye to hear that those in power are none so keen about this affair of the Secretary? His intention is ower plain to mistake, and I can tell ye, sir, there are many on our side forbye myself that do not like it. The rising is utterly broken, and two great lords have already paid the penalty with their heads. It is a civilised people making war within itself, and the best statesmen have no craving for a glut of blood. Now mark ye what happens. The thing appears to be near a natural end. Scores of the common folk have swung for it, and there is hope that the worst is over. Then here comes the arch-plotter and gives himself up of his own free-will. Any bairn can make the inference. Mr. Murray has something to tell, and there is but one person in our hands that such a tale can affect. This person, as it chances, is of great fame and far stricken in years. Ye follow my words, Mr. Birke
nshaw?”
Francis nodded, seeing a gleam of light.
“It is true that all the bloodhounds of the courts and the common ruck of the nation are never tired of butchery; but I speak of the great and wise who have the real ordering of the land, and alone think truly of its welfare. Do you not perceive that this has some bearing on your case, sir?”
“Then I may hope—” began Francis, eagerly.
“Softly, sir,” said the Lord President. “I have nothing to do with what you hope. As an officer of law it is my business to see that you hope nothing. I was declaring a point of pure theory. Supposing, sir, supposing, I say, that the King’s government woke up to-morrow and found Mr. Murray no longer a resident in a certain place, the best and most powerful would be the least sorry.”
“But the thing you speak of is near impossible.”
“Not so,” said the other. “It would be possible — again I consider it in theory — for a powerful minister even to use some influence to see that the chance of the aforesaid gentleman’s departure at least was there. The guard might be selected with some discretion on that particular night, Mr. Francis.”
Francis was looking steadfastly at the floor, in a profound study.
“I think I have followed, my lord,” he said, looking up. “I cannot tell you my gratitude.”
“There is a further matter to mention,” said Forbes. “I presume that in such a supposed event a certain gentleman would fall into the hands of the law,” and he looked with meaning.
“It seems the only way,” said Francis.
“Then, of course, you have understood that the full rigour of the law’s vengeance would fall on such an one. Whatever the Government might think in its private heart, it must show a severe front to the world. The lad that sought to fill Mr. Secretary’s place would swing from a tow ere the week was out.”
